Somewhere in My Mind

Somewhere in My Mind

There, then gone,
lost          somewhere.

How to address this
when there is no memory.

A hundred times a day,
I go to the well.

Each time I return
with an empty cup.

Nothing to do but go on,
moment to moment,

try to break the spell
as I greet each moment,

looking for the memories
lost somewhere in my mind.

This poem is my response to Poetics: Lost poems and Found Poetry, the prompt from Laura Bloomsberry at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, which is to write a found poem from one of those provided, with no required adherence to exact wording or order and the freedom to add to the “found” words. I have used Lost in Plain Sight, by Peter Schneider, which was sourced from Poetry Foundation. The original appears below, with used words in bold.

Lost in Plain Sight
  By Peter Schneider

Somewhere recently
I lost my short-term memory.
It was there and then it moved
like the flash of a red fox
along a line fence.

My short-term memory
has no address but here
no time but now.
It is a straight-man, waiting to speak
to fill in empty space
with name, date, trivia, punch line.
And then it fails to show.

It is lost, hiding somewhere out back
a dried ragweed stalk on the Kansas Prairie
holding the shadow of its life
against a January wind.

How am I to go on?
I wake up a hundred times a day.
Who am I waiting for
what am I looking for
why do I have this empty cup
on the porch or in the yard?
I greet my neighbor, who smiles.
I turn a slow, lazy Susan
in my mind, looking for
some clue, anything to break the spell
of being lost in plain sight.

fluid currency

fluid currency

more than ash
innumerable particles
floating, at last
in the river
the river in me
boundless energy
in the rush of rapid descent
flowing past fond memories
familiar shores
ever onward, outward
to a world without borders
one with the big expanse

This poem is my second response to Quadrille night: ashes to ashes, the prompt from Sarah at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, which is to use a form of the word ash in a 44-word poem (excluding title), with no required meter or rhyme.

From boating to diving, to kayaking, to just sitting on the shore, I’ve always thought of the Niagara River as my home. My children have promised to scatter my ashes in the river. One last river dive, this time over Niagara Falls, will be mine before I eventually flow towards the sea.

Broken Rib

Broken Rib

I wash all thought of you
from my mind.

Still, you surface
like the broken rib
of a long-forgotten wreck
left behind for better times,
as if the light of day will change
your waterlogged story, erase
the memory of our stormy past.

This poem is my response to Quadrille night: ashes to ashes, the prompt from Sarah at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, which is to use a form of the word ash in a 44-word poem (excluding title), with no required meter or rhyme. Wash from your mind any thought that “wash” is not a form of “ash.”

**Returning to this after a couple of hours, I see that I could have
written it this way and included “ash.”

Broken Rib

I wash all thought of you
from my mind.
Yet, you surface
like the broken rib
of a long-forgotten wreck,
as if the light of day will change
your waterlogged story,
erase our stormy past. If only
it had been reduced to ash.

Image source: National Park Service

Cazadero Moss

Cazadero Moss

Beside a leaf-scattered trail
that winds beneath Douglas fir
and redwood, massive
granite boulders lie, almost a wall.
High, relative to a terrain
that continues to rise
above the valley below.

Moss covers the wall,
the crevices between boulders,
as if married to the wall.
A soft blanket of green
where fallen needles and thoughts
collect, thoughts of those
who have stopped to relish
the beauty of this moment,
any moment in this place.

A late response to earthweal weekly post: THE NATURE OF ENCHANTMENT, i am sharing this poem with earthweal open link weekend #88.

Photos: Cazadero Nature and Art Conservancy, in Sonoma County, California.
(click images for larger view in new tab)

My other Cazadero poems can be found here.

Out of Reach

Out of Reach

Words come,
go, whether I stop
to think about the pain
or drive it from my mind.
Never really gone,
it rises when I fall victim
to regret, consider wasted
moments when I long
for those out of reach,
no longer here. I reach
for words they will never hear,
never sure if the words
will reach me.

This poem is my response to Poetics: From a place of pain, the prompt from Ingrid at dVerse ~ Poets Pub, which is “to revisit a time in your life when you have felt pain (emotional or physical, acute or chronic) and come out on the other side stronger.” I don’t think I’ve ever survived such a moment in a way that made me any stronger. Instead, I consider myself just as vulnerable.

color gone ~ gogyohka

color gone
as night awakens
dim dusk light
crescent moon rises
pale color returns

This gogyohka is my response to Colleen’s #TankaTuesday Weekly #Poetry Challenge No. 247, #SynonymsOnly at Word Craft: Prose and Poetry,
using dusk and color for the offered words, twilight and hue.
I suppose you could say it’s a “short-line”tanka, as the syllables are consistent.

Photo: 27 April 2020 (click for larger view in new tab)

Heartbeat of America ~ Cadralor ~ American Sentence

Heartbeat of America

A well-oiled machine does not have to mean a well-oiled environment.

As a citizen of this great land, it’s your right to dig your own grave.

Opposites may attract, but not so much when they’re at each other’s throats.

The intent to bring harm upon others is not an oath worth keeping.

The heartbeat of America is sadly in need of CPR.

The prompt at Meet the Bar with the Cadralor + Nobel Prize, hosted by Björn at dVerse ~ Poets Pub is to write a Cadralor, a poetry form co-created by Lori Howe, Christopher Cadra and Mary Carroll-Hackett. The rules of the form, as stated at Gleam: Journal of the Cadralor:

“The Cadralor is a poem of 5, unrelated, numbered stanzaic images, each of which can stand alone as a poem, is fewer than 10 lines, and ideally constrains all stanzas to the same number of lines. Imagery is crucial to cadralore: each stanza should be a whole, imagist poem, almost like a scene from a film, or a photograph. The fifth stanza acts as the crucible, alchemically pulling the unrelated stanzas together into a love poem. By “love poem,” we mean that your fifth stanza illuminates a gleaming thread that runs obliquely through the unrelated stanzas and answers the compelling question: “For what do you yearn?”

My poem probably is shorter than expected, and I suppose I’ve stood the form on its head by using an American Sentence for each of the stanzas.

Image (layered): &